


Primary Sources

by Redrikki



Category: Oxford Time Travel Universe - Connie Willis
Genre: Epistolary, Gen, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:01:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24264016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redrikki/pseuds/Redrikki
Summary: In the dark years when the net won't open, Colin has a lot of growing up to do.
Relationships: Kivrin Engle & Colin Templer
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19
Collections: Hurt Comfort Exchange 2020





	Primary Sources

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lirin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lirin/gifts).



**December 2060**

Colin paced Kivrin’s shoebox of an office like a caged tiger, ranting about the unfairness of the Assignments Committee. His latest request to stumble aimlessly through 1943 in the slim hopes of finding Polly Churchill before her deadline ran out had unsurprisingly been rejected. With the stink being raised by her family, not to mention Davies’ and Ward’s, it would be a miracle if they let anyone through the net, let alone an eighteen-year-old who’d barely sat the exams for his first term. The entire department might have treated him like their precocious mascot since that disastrous Christmas she spent in 1348, but that wasn’t going to change things. Colin just couldn’t seem to understand that. 

Kivrin rubbed tiredly at her forehead. In retrospect, she should have told him to find someone, anyone else to be his tutor. Somebody in his century, perhaps, with enough clout to help him get what he wanted. Or, better yet, someone without the personal history that made it virtually impossible to tell him no. Not that he seemed to understand the meaning of the word. Somehow in all the years he’d been pestering Mr. Dunworthy, she’d forgetting how utterly impossible he could be. Possibly because it had never been directed at her. 

“Colin,” she sighed, “the age restrictions are in place for a reason. They’re not going to waive them just because you really, really want to go.”

“Four people are missing!” he said, like that wasn’t precisely why they hadn’t done a drop in months. “Polly! Mr. Dunworthy!” The order in which he listed them certainly said something about where his priorities lay.

Kivrin struggled to hold onto her temper with both hands. “All the more reason not to send you,” she ground out through gritted teeth. Mr. Dunworthy was missing and Colin thought he could what? Ride off to the rescue because he’d managed it once when he was twelve? The past could be dangerous in ways one could never anticipate. Kivrin knew that better than most, but Colin certainly didn’t. “There are a dozen, _fully-trained_ techs and historians working on bringing them home. Breaking the rules and running off half-cocked helps no one.”

“Mr. Dunworthy broke all the rules when it was you,” he said accusingly.

The words hung in the air between them like a challenge. Mr. Dunworthy had broken himself out of the hospital, used the net without authorization, and stolen a horse for her. So why couldn’t she circumvent the Assignments Committee and open a net which refused to work for anyone? 

Kivrin dug her fingernails into the spot on her wrist where her corder had been. “Get out,” she said quietly, and tried not to scream.

* * *

To: kivin.engle@ox.ac.uk  
From: colin.templer@ox.ac.uk  
Sent: December 23, 2060 1:06 am  
Subject: Sorry

Kivrin,

The other day, my roommate accused me of being addicted to the idea of being a hero as well as pathetically desperate to get into Polly’s knickers. He’s probably right, and so are you. I have this memory of riding that stallion down into that village to find you. It felt so good to be able to save someone after sitting helpless in the hall while my Aunt Mary died. I’m sorry what for what I said, but she asked me to look after him and I promised Polly I’d come for her. No one will tell me what’s going on or let me do anything and I feel like I’m back in that hallway waiting from them to die. 

I know you’d do whatever you could to help Mr. Dunworthy. I shouldn’t have implied you wouldn’t.

Happy Christmas, I guess.

Colin

* * *

To: colin.templer@ox.ac.uk  
From: kivrin.engle@ox.ac.uk  
Sent: December 23, 2060 11:09 am  
Subject: re: Sorry

Colin,

Apology accepted. I’m sorry you’ve been feeling like that. I’ve never felt so helpless as I did in Ashencote trying to keep the plague at bay, but this feels close. I know you want to ride to the rescue, but it’s just not that simple. It wasn’t that simple back then either, no matter how it felt to you. The department is trying to keep this under their hats, but the truth is, since they pulled Charles out of Singapore _none_ of the wartime drops will open. Assignments won’t send you anywhere because they _can’t._ Even if they could, they wouldn’t send you. 

You got lucky in 1348. Before I went, I taught myself to spin, sew, ride, and milk a cow. I learned three different languages and read every source I could find about the period, and I still didn’t know enough. They’re not going to send someone as completely unprepared as you into the middle of a war, not when they’re already missing four people.

If you want to find them, you’re going to have to put the work in. Assignments won’t let you through the net until you’ve met your qualifications, so _meet them_. Stop skiving off your classes to pester Badri when he’s trying to work. If we haven’t found them by the time you’re qualified, I promise I will do everything in my power to get you on the retrieval team. In the meantime, if you want to do something useful, help us find them. I know you like to turn your nose up at old-fashioned research, but no one knows where they are. Trawling through a newspaper archives is a good deal less romantic than galloping across the countryside, but a lot more useful.

Happy Christmas. On the day of, I’ll be going to mass and then drinking until I forget. Feel free to join me for that last part.

Kivrin

* * *

**June 2064**

Kivrin looked up sharply as Colin burst into her office. The 1970s had called and asked for his atrocious mullet back, but he must not have had time to stop for a haircut before rushing over from the lab and his research trip to 1976. The strap on his messenger bag had come undone, offering her a glimpse of the papers inside. His face was flushed and his eyes were alight with excitement.

“Good trip?” she asked dryly. In the early days, he’d been like a child on Christmas with every clue, but it had been ages since Kivrin had seen him anything approaching this excited.

“You would not believe what I found,” he said. He pulled a piece of paper, one of those cheap, blurry print-outs from a 1970s microfilm reader, out from his bag and slapped it down on the desk like a schoolboy showing off his perfect report card.

Her breath left her with a whoosh. _Mr. James Dunworthy of Cordle Street, Kensington, _the article read,_ was killed walking home during the raid on the night of the 14th. His daughters, Polly and Eileen, were injured also, but both are recovering in hospital._

The blurry text became even blurrier as her eyes filled with tears. She couldn’t seem to get her breath back. Mr. Dunworthy was dead. Kivrin pressed her knuckle to her lips as a sob built in her throat. He had come for her when she hadn’t thought anyone would and now it was too late to return the favor. It was 120 years too late and she’s never even had a chance to say goodbye. Had he felt her love across the years as she had felt his, or had he died feeling lost and alone? She pressed her palms together, feeling for the corder that was no longer there.

“Kivrin? Kivrin!” Colin’s frantic shouting pulled her back to the present. “It’s not him,” he said. “Mr. Dunworthy went as Edward Prince. I handed him the identity papers myself. It’s a message for us, and it’s not the only one.”

“What?” Kivrin asked, her voice hoarse. She wiped the tears from her eyes and tried to pull herself together. “How is that possible?”

“Ann helped me find them,” he said, like she was supposed to know who Ann was. “Operation Fortitude was filling the papers with fake stories to cover the buildup to the invasion. Stories like this one.”

He laid down another piece of paper. _Mr. and Mrs. James Townsend of Upper Notting announced the engagement of their daughter Polly to Flight Officer Colin Templer of the 21st Airborne Division, currently stationed in Kent. A late June wedding is planned._

As far as she knew, the 21st Airborne had never been in Kent and, if they had, Flight Officer Templer would have known better than to plan a late June wedding. It was clearly a Fortitude piece, but the names could simply be coincidence. After all these years, it was no surprise he was desperate for a sign, but it wasn’t necessarily as message for them. Kivrin opened her mouth to say so, but Colin beat her to it.

“There’s more,” he said, pulling a fist-full of papers out of his bag and spreading them across the desk.

Kivrin sifted through them. There were dozens of articles, personal ads, and letters to the editor filled with familiar names. Her desk was swimming with Eileens and Pollys and Colins, Wards and Templers and Davies. A contemp probably wouldn’t have noticed the pattern, but, taken all together, it was obvious. “Someone in Fortitude is trying to get our attention.”

Colin nodded. “And I know who it is.” He pulled out one last paper, this one an article supposedly about the opening of Camp Omaha, complete with photograph. There, front and center, was Michael Davies. For the first time in a long time, Kivrin felt a stirring of hope. They knew where he was, now all they had to do was get him.

* * *

To: kivin.engle@ox.ac.uk  
From: colin.templer@ox.ac.uk  
Sent: December 23, 2060 16:26 pm  
Subject: re:re:Sorry

Kivrin,

I slipped under the net after Mr. Dunworthy and the others had done all the tedious bits that made the whole thing possible. I suppose I’ve been imagining this historian business like that. A fun adventure to the past with a nice, happy ending. Childish of me, I know. Polly said I was too young for her. I guess it’s time I grew the hell up.

Colin


End file.
